The thought that she might be trying to coax a killer out of hiding sent another jolt through Irene. She decided to make a run back to the side door.
But she had waited too long. Running footsteps sounded in the darkness, ringing and echoing off the tiled walls and floor. The other person was not fleeing the scene, Irene realized. Instead, he or she—it was impossible to tell which—was coming toward her.
Standing there in the glowing moonlight and silhouetted against the wall of glass doors behind her on the far side of the lap pool, she made an ideal target.
She kicked off her shoes, whirled around, and hurled her handbag across the narrow lap pool. She had spent her youth pitching hay and stacking firewood. She was tall for a woman, and the single life had kept her fit and strong. A lady on her own in the world could not afford the luxury of being delicate.
The handbag landed on the tiles on the opposite side of the pool with a solid thud.
She jumped into the water and started swimming. She would reach the opposite side within seconds. Unless the watcher followed her into the water, she would have a good chance of escape. There was no way the other person could get around either end of the pool in time to intercept her.
She was a good swimmer but her fashionable, wide-legged trousers were immediately transformed into lead weights. She swam harder, resisting the downward pull of the clothing.
It was not the first time that she had gone into water fully dressed. There had been a river near the farm where she was raised. Her grandfather had made certain that she learned how to swim almost as soon as she learned how to walk.
The knowledge that she was swimming over the body of the dead woman was unnerving, but not nearly as unnerving as the realization that she was probably being chased by a killer.
She reached the far side and dragged herself up out of the water. It took every ounce of strength she possessed, but she discovered that fear was a terrific motivator. She managed to scramble to her feet.
Breathless, she paused to look back. She saw no one in the shadows, but she heard rapid footsteps again. This time they were headed away from the pool. A short time later a door opened and closed on the far side of the spa chamber.
Irene gripped the handle of her handbag and hurried to the glass doors that fronted the spa. She fled into the moonlit gardens.
Once again she was running from the scene of a murder, running from a killer.
Just when she had begun to think that her new life in California might have a Hollywood ending.
Chapter 5
“Now that Detective Brandon and the officer have taken their leave, Miss Glasson, I think you and I should have a private conversation,” Oliver Ward said.
Irene considered her options. She had an uneasy feeling that her first choice—concocting an excuse to decline the chat—was not going to work. In her short time in California she had learned to expect the unexpected, and Oliver Ward definitely qualified as a disturbing example of the unexpected.
She glanced across the living room, gauging the distance between the big leather armchair in which she sat and the front door. She just might make it. She had one very big advantage—Ward had a bad leg. His gait was stiff and halting. He was forced to rely on a cane.
The cause of the injury was no secret. It was, in fact, something of a show business legend. Oliver Ward was once a world-famous magician who had performed amazing illusions at some of the biggest theaters in the United States. He had toured Europe. But two years ago things had gone terribly wrong. Ward was nearly killed in what proved to be his final performance. The disaster made headlines across the country. Blood on the Stage. Famous Magician Badly Injured in Front of Audience, May Not Survive.
What, precisely, had gone wrong had been a matter of conjecture in the press for months. All anyone knew for certain was that there had been real ammunition in the gun that was used in the illusion. Ward had steadfastly refused to give any interviews on the subject. After he was released from the hospital, he had seemingly vanished from the scene.
Tonight Irene discovered that he had gone into the hotel business.
At the moment, he was on the far side of the room, standing at an elegant black-lacquer liquor cabinet where he was in the process of pouring two whiskies. He appeared to be in excellent health but, given his serious limp, she was almost certain she could get to the door before he could.
It was, however, highly unlikely that she could escape the grounds without being stopped. Ward employed an impressive array of well-dressed security guards. Their evening uniforms consisted of black-and-white formal attire, but the good clothes did not disguise their muscular builds. Not that any of them had been around earlier in the spa when she could have used a little help.